Page 4 of This Is How It Started
“I see it,” I call through my open window, indicating the yellow curb. Still, I’m unsure if he can hear me through his helmet with his motorcycle idling.
He kills the engine and approaches. “Do you know why I stopped you?”
I give him a blank stare.
He stares back. “You made a U-turn in a business district.”
Yeah,I think.So what?
He must read the giant question mark in my expression, because he says, “It’s illegal.”
Before I can try to talk him out of citing me, he’s scribbling in his pad. Ten minutes later, I pull into traffic with a $234 ticket sitting on my passenger seat. Next month’s rent is due on the first, and I have no idea how I’m going to pay it, let alone the extra $234. I’m barely scraping by selling real estate, a sad commentary on my skills as a salesperson in a city where the median home price is well over a million dollars and every agent I work with is making a fortune. My father says I just don’t have that killer instinct, which I suppose is a nicer version of my mother’s “You’re wasting your life.” Sort of rich coming from a woman who never worked a day in her life, but not exactly wrong.
I’m tempted to call Campbell and tell him I give up. The Prius in front of me has now circled the block twice in search of the holy grail. But the parking gods must sense that I’m at my wits’ end, because mercifully a spot opens up when a Honda Civic pulls out in front of me. I parallel park my MINI with all the grace of a drunk, having to attempt it multiple times before I’m even with the curb.
It’s three blocks to the Round Up. I grab my coat from the back seat and wait for traffic to ease up before I open my door.
I’m halfway to the Round Up when someone comes up behind me.
“Hey, hold up.”
My first instinct is to get to the bar as fast as possible. I’m somewhat mollified by the fact that there are quite a few people out walking, but I still lengthen my stride. A few weeks ago, a woman was attacked in broad daylight right in front of my mother’s building. Or at least that’s what she told me. Her penchant for exaggeration is legendary in our family. Still, a person can never be too careful.
The man is beside me now. And while he doesn’t appear to be a homicidal maniac, one can never tell. I’ve seen too many true-crime shows to let a cashmere coat and a pair of perfectly creased slacks fool me.
“I saw what happened back there,” he says.
I don’t have the first clue what he’s talking about. “What happened?” I pick up the pace, convinced that he’s a well-turned-out nutjob.
“That cop that stopped you and gave you a ticket.”
Oh, that.
“What was it for? Flipping an illegal U-turn?”
I stop. “Did you know you’re not allowed to turn around in a business district?” Because it’s the first I’ve heard of it. I’m wondering if the cop, worried about making his quota, made it up on the spot.
“Sure. Everyone knows that.”
I shoot him a look, and he laughs. It’s one of those deep, rumbling laughs that vibrates in his chest and makes me feel immediately at ease.
“How much?” He makes the money sign with his fingers.
“Two hundred and thirty-four bucks. Can you believe it?”
He whistles and shakes his head. “That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does.” It’s my first ticket. Truth is I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was twenty-three and didn’t own my own car until I started selling real estate two years ago. “What happens if I don’t pay it?”
“San Quentin. They’ll lock you up forever.” He smiles, and my eyes are drawn to the cleft in his chin. “But seriously, you’ve gotta pay it. The fine accrues over time, and eventually they’ll impound your car. I might be able to help you out with the two hundred and thirty-four bucks, though.”
I instantly go on creep alert. Instead of waiting for what is sure to be a proposition, I continue heading to the Round Up, hoping to shake him once I get to the bar. Undeterred, he follows me inside, where a rush of warm air greets us. I search the place for Campbell, but he’s nowhere to be found.
We both take a seat at the concrete bar. Everything from the live-edge wooden banquettes and wallpaper with meat-cut diagrams to the bare Edison light bulbs and Radiohead music in the background screams hipster. It’s probably why I don’t come here often.
He grabs a cocktail napkin off a stack in the far corner, scribbles something on it and slides it over to me. I look down where he’s written “Born to Run” and stare up at him quizzically.What does Bruce Springsteen have to do with my ticket?
“It’s a horse,” he says. “He’s racing tomorrow at Golden Gate Fields, and I got a hot tip he’s a winner.” He bobs his chin and says, “You’re welcome.”
